Shallow Sky
by Raptor6
Summary: Endless choices lay before us all. anyone can be a hero or a villain, anyone can be right or wrong. All this Hot Rod must learn as he endeavors to prove himself, though it may cost him worse than his life...


The towering grasses in the field swayed indifferently in the melodic wind. Starscream gazed in mild interest as the flames gnawed at the vegetation, drawing ever nearer the patch his eyes examined. The flames and the dying landscape, however, were only one point of interest; the other lay in its brazen casing within his greedy fingers. The luminescent pearl shimmered and pulsed, rejecting and simultaneously embracing its present master. Even the sun, it seemed, couldn't match the glitter of the jewel.

Pleasure tugged awkwardly at the Seeker's features, joy unaccustomed to his face. For once, however, he had reason to be pleased. For the first time in a long while, a chuckle grazed hs throat.

The pearl in his hand shuddered, praying softly in its silent gleam.

The Autobot council chamber was lit dimly, the long, bare table exuding a chill each high-ranking officer felt in his soul. Jazz, examiner of the native customs and emotional heart of the Autobot hierarchy chewed on his fingertips, a habit no doubt picked up from his human contemporaries despite his absense of any fingernails to speak of; Prowl, the voice of irrefutable reason and their chief strategist tapped at the keys of his datapad, absently resetting his own jaw at regular intervals, as he had for the last seven minutes he had been sitting in his designated chair; Ratchet, the chief Autobot surgeon on the Earth and now in the universe, with the passing of others in recent Cybertron-based Decepticon raids tinkered with the mechanics of his own hand; and Ultra Magnus, ancient companion to the Prime and overseer of a new construction project called 'Autobot City' sat with hands clamped over his torso, optics betraying ponderous thought. Though Ironhide, Hot Spot, and Silverbolt were normally present at these conventions, the nature of the circumstances did not require Prime's bodyguard or the Protectobots' and Aerialbots' respective commanders.

The entry hatch opened, spilling light into the chamber, the silhouette of Optimus Prime carrying itself to his place at the head of the table with militant authority, but a dejected gait of a mech crushed beneath his impossible burden. Magnus moved to stand at attention, thrust back into his seat by Ratchet's hand, the medic shaking his head. The Autobots on Earth were too close-knit to offer formal salutations, not that Ultra Magnus would know that; he had just arrived after an extended sojourn in another galaxy, and been shipped to Earth when Cybertron shortly therafter declared an 'Autobot-free zone'. He was still learning the new military etiquette, or lack thereof. Optimus took his seat, the sea of blue moons turning to face him.

With an air of suppressed anxiety, Optimus began the meeting on the note it was clearly not hastily compiled for: "Ultra Magnus, how goes the construction of Autobot City?"

Caught off-guard by the lack of straightforwardness, Magnus fumbled, "It's going fine, Prime. The humans are volunteering a gracious sum of the materials, and we're trying to house all the new refugees with all the haste we can. In fact, many of both the humans and the new Cybertronian emigrants have offered their help in the construction work"

The diplomat was cut short as Ratchet's fist met the table with crushing force, his gruff tone bellowing, "Why're we wasting time talking about the damned city? We all know why we're here!"

Ultra Magnus was the only one present unaccustomed to the physician's blunt outbursts, thus he was the only one that jumped. The other three heads bobbed in agreement, none of them preferring to beat around the bush.

"Fine," Prime said a mite frostily, the subject matter unearthing his testiness. "The Matrix is gone. The three brave couriers enlisted to escort it to us were discovered by the Decepticons and shot down. It seems that they attempted to escape with it, but they... didn't make it, obviously."

The rumor that the Matrix of Leadership was still on Cybertron had originated some time ago, but it had been assumed that Optimus Prime had always carried it, in part to keep some of the more religious soldiers' morale high, though all medical personnell and higher-ups were kept abreast of the truth: That it had remained on Cybertron in the care of Elita One, and assumed destroyed when the fortress of Iacon had been penetrated by the Decepticons some two million years after those bound on Earth were set in their slumber the female Autobots presumably among the casualties. No proof having come to bare of their status until the time when the group of femme fatales had surfaced during an energon famine, the murmur of mourning for the sacred relic had been restrained primarily to those within this room, Ultra Magnus aside.

Knowing his cue, Prowl piped up, not a key on his pad having been touched since the meeting began. "I examined the ruins of the vessel they arrived in, and though I believe it was intended to look as though it went down in a fiery wreck, the hull was in condition too fine to have crashed, along with an obvious lack of skid marks..."

Optimus leaned forward, his voice severe. "What are you inferring?"

"Honestly? I have no idea." Prowl conceded. "I don't know why this cover-up was attempted, but what bugs me is how sloppily it was done. The Decepticons stationed here are mostly elite, and though some of them may not be bright enough to even try to cover up what they've done, the fact it was covered at all makes me think the assailant was someone with wits enough, but he was distracted by something else."

"The bodies would agree with that," Ratchet chimed, drawing attention of his own. "They were strewn about the craft before it was pounded on and the wiring set ablaze, but the cadavers were clearly taken down by precision laser fire the kind you get when you've got Seekers on the tail between your legs. The dings and gashes in 'em indicate they were in vehicular form probably fleeing the scene."

Demeanor more hopeful, Optimus continued his query. "Were their subspace regions hacked?"

"I double-checked with Prowl, and yeah. These bastards got torn every which way before they finally bought it.

"Then they knew what the cargo was?"

Prowl shrugged with a despairing expression, hating when an investigation was outside his capability. "There's no way to know. They knew there was something of import, certainly."

Silent up to this point, Jazz adjoined the exposition. "So we don't know that the Matrix was destroyed."

"There is no proof to nudge my assumptions in either direction," the ivory detective stated with chagrin.

Jazz opened his mouth to speak, closing it suddenly as he clasped a hand over one audio module. "Guys, I'm gonna have to be moseyin' here," he blurted, standing abruptly and breaking for the door.

"Is something wrong?" Optimus asked anxiously, unsure the situation could be intensified.

"Not really," Jazz muttered, "I just think we got a witness 's all."

Fingering the datapad limply, Starscream was unsure what to say. The schematics on the small screen matched his latest acquisition perfectly, and the data flowing idly across seemed so reverent for such a presently dingy object. He looked up toward his messanger, his optics quietly mirroring his dialogue: "I disbelieve."

"The archives identify a precise match in the material and its composition," Onslaught stated with his ever-present reverence for the facts. "I do believe you hold the genuine article."

"You expect me to believe," the Seeker intoned with quiet indignity that heightened in volume with every word, "that I've captured an object of greater Autobot veneration than Optimus Prime himself, that it was guarded by a measly three painfully inexperienced couriers, and that this virtual divinity would be kept in such deplorable condition as that!"

Within the hierarchy, there were many officers that cowered in the wake of Starscream's inevitable wrath, but Onslaught was not among them. He offered not the slightest cringe, his belief in the facts unwavering. "It is the Autobot Matrix of Leadership."

"No, it is a fake; we must have picked up on a decoy."

"The Autobots haven't the resources right now to build a decoy, for the same reason there were only three men in charge of it: Shockwave's sword has fallen, and most of that pathetic resistance on Cybertron has been altogether crushed."

Starscream steadied himself against the smooth-cut desk he claimed for his own when he visited the Combaticon base; it was a dank room with little light of either the natural or artificial sort, little of the natural type to be offered in this underground segment of the structure, the sunken outpost having been established in the Nevada desert some months earlier as a separate refuge for Onslaught to fabricate his tactical brilliance. The Seeker visited with frequency enough often his haven from Megatron's fury to warrant his own quarters. Clearly not swaying the strategist to his own beliefs, Starscream chose to humor his aide. "Fine, supposing this is the legendary artifact, why did not Prime have it delivered sooner?"

The ocean-blue Decepticon paused. "All I have to offer is conjecture."

"Then conject," the Seeker bade with trademark impatience.

"The Matrix is symbolic more than anything else, but there are some fanatics that believe the device to be so otherworldly that it is for reasons of predestination imposssible to destroy: The 'prophecy' would then be impossible to fulfil."

Grumbling thoughtfully, Starscream ordered Onslaught from the room, permitting the rubies set in his face to cast their bloody hues across the room, coupled with the soft, dim light of the relic in his hand. In his finite palm, the object seemed so petty and worthless. Yet, it some faint way, it was comforting, strong. He was yet undecided on what its fate would be, but the fact it was out of the grasp of its legitimate possessors was, in some small way, a comfort to his greedy, sinful soul. It was impossible not to entertain the malicious thought: How much were the Autobots missing it even now?

And how much would they give for its return?

Jazz strode merrily to the beat of an unheard song, entering the blue-lit region of the Ark that had been, when the it left Cybertron, a navigation chamber, layouts of whole star systems and the best flight paths through them at one's fingertips. When it seemed the ship was grounded for good, Jazz and Cliffjumper petitioned for its expansion and redecoration into a 'cafeteria' those being the most practical terms, and thereby being the most likely to sway Prime and succeeded in such, even if 'cafeteria' was their euphemism for 'tavern', and 'tavern' was a euphemism for 'place of drunkening'.

It was ludicrously overcrowded for its expanse, and Grapple had promised at least one good-sized pub to be found within the new city, but until then they were stuck with their crowded stampede of a watering hole, and it was here that the unfortunate young mechanism was to meet Jazz. Interestingly enough, it would also be their introductory encounter, the youth having transferred from Moon Base Two only days ago.

Recognizing the witness' most distinctive paintjob propped in a short booth in the corner, Jazz selected the adjacent seat and plopped down, folding his arm across the table and making the best first-impression he possibly could. "Name's Jazz; jammin'est Autobot you're likely to find, and if you got the soul to match your paintjob, then I like ya already."

The new Autobot looked down at the orange flames graven across his scarlet frame, smiling sheepishly. "Hey, folks're bound to remember your name if you got the flashiest colors around."

Jazz chuckled, unable to dispute that logic. Personally, he had always relied on his personality to carry him through life and make the impressions on the people he wanted to without a vibrant paintjob, but there was no accounting for individuality. "Too true, bro. You got a name?"

The green recruit waggled his fingers, evidently unsure whether or not to extend his hand in mimicry of the very human custom. Noticing the dilemma, Jazz readily extended his own.

"I'm Hot Rod," he offered, his handshake brisk as he could muster.

Predisposed to exhanging pleasantries, even in this situation, Jazz saw nothing about the predicament so urgent that he couldn't take the time to be friendly and ask what he wanted to. Five minutes would ultimately have little to no bearing on what became of the missing artifact. "So, guy," he said casually, unwilling to bestow upon the young one a title as belittling as 'kid' or 'son', "what made ya dial my personal frequency rather than Prime's?"

"You've got a rep as a pretty keen guy. I don't know Optimus Prime I don't really know anyone here, so I had you pegged as the guy that, well... seemed the most approachable."

"Now you're just tryin' to flatter me," the saboteur grinned. "So what'cha got to say that can help my pals find their missin' toy?"

Hesitating, Hot Rod peeked over his shoulder conspiratorially, in actuality shifting his entire upper body, so as to look past the tremendous spoiler adorning his back. "Look, I was hoping to come to Earth and make a big splash, y'know? But I'd sorta like that splash to be... good," he deadpanned. "Being the guy that happens to see an important piece of Autobot property stolen by Decepticons and standing helplessly by isn't the kind of significance I want to have."

"I'll tell ya what: Tell me what'cha saw, and you can still have a good impact on the world that's what'cha want, ain't it?"

Hot Rod nodded, a faint smile breaking his thus far sullen face. Within that smile, Jazz saw himself when he was young and new to the war. When he was still relatively innocent.

Muted though his pity was, he mourned the child and his uncertain future. Maturing under conditions of war was, to say the least, difficult.

Leaning over, Jazz patted his latest friend on the shoulder, indicating he was free to go on. After a hesitant sigh, Hot Rod told the tale: "Like I said, I've only been here a few days. I didn't know anything about this planet, so I asked Kup to give me a tour, and after he spent about five minutes telling me he had more important things to do, he gave in and some kid named Daniel came along.

"We drove along for an hour or so before Kup got a call saying he was needed, and Daniel and I were supposed to follow him back to the city. Needless to say, we, uh, didn't," he paused to smile lamely, letting it be known that he knew his actions were stupid. "So we wandered through the forest a little, and we saw this cargo ship overhead. we laid low, and saw it land in this clearing a ways ahead, and these Seekers touched down with it. There were some other guys, too. The, uh, Batticons?

"Combaticons," Jazz corrected, listening with rapt attention.

"Right. Long story short, the Autobots inside bolted in another direction, two of the 'cons followed, came back with one of 'em, and after tearing into his subspace compartment, pulled out that Matrix-thing. Daniel started to freak out, so we slipped away."

Jazz now had an inkling as to why Hot Rod hadn't said anything until now, and prodded only for the boy's betterment. "How come ya didn't speak up before?"

"I was... I mean... I didn't engage them. I just watched as they tore at least one guy that could've been me apart for a stupid piece of junk, and I didn't do a DAMN THING!" Attention was drawn toward their booth from across the tavern, to which the spooked mech averted his eyes.

Jazz waved their attention elsewhere, and addressed his junior in the soothing tone that came easily to him, careful to not induce guilt: "Why didn't ya do anything?"

"Because... Daniel was with me. I didn't want to be the one to tell his father if anything..." he trailed off then, possibly realizing that he never had been at fault.

Placing his face several inches closer, Jazz lulled, "If any Autobot would blame ya because you were concerned about the safety of a human, than you ain't addressin' a real 'bot. Understand?"

Nodding ashamedly at his own shame, Hot Rod smiled. "Point taken. And... thanks."

Jazz patted the youth briskly on the back. "You're a keen egg, guy," Jazz complimented. "Don't go gettin' yourself scrambled." With that, Jazz tossed a farewell thumbs-up to his companion before drifting from the table, sprinting as he reached the main corridor. "Yo, Op," he said into his comm, "Put out an APB for Screamer. I think he's got somethin' that don't belong to him."

A rapturous song seeped from Stascream's scarlet eyes, his precious prize hanging from a dull gray chain about his neck, its brassy casing glimmering nearly as bright as the azure jewel it housed. After a vigrous polish, Starscream was at last content to say that it looked like the perfect trophy that it was.

Wisely, the Seeker had opted to store the treasure here, within the remains of the very mountain base they had used years ago, rather than risk Swindle's happening across it in the Combaticon base, or Megatron ordering a sweep of Starscream's own quarters in primary headquarters; the conqueror was indeed getting suspicious of Starscream's vaguely paranoid behavior, but the aerial marksman had never owned an item such as this before, either. Never had an object of such power and/or worth been in his posession at least not since the exponential generator. Starscream had consistently criticized his leader for marching on human science installations and stealing their paltry equipment, but it seemed to him that a device such as this of Autobot construct and Autobot worth was indeed worth more than many exponential generators, electro-cells, and Nightbirds.

The thought of that last name did, however, send a shudder through his frame. Megatron had taunted and jested that Nightbird could replace him with such ease, and though impossible for a being that hadn't even any discernable vocal circuitry Starscream still felt a pang of insecurity any time Nightbird came up in conversation. There was an involuntary irony that this tarnished base he stood within now was the very one wherein that primitive robot was reprogrammed. The Decepticons had bombed it after evacuation to assure no secrets fell into Autobot hands, though the extent of damage to the outpost's center was limited only to collapsed light fixtures and rubble from the ceiling littering the floor. The computers and consoles had been severed from their relays to prevent Autobot hacking, the base was entirely nonfunctional, bar the auxillary lighting adding only a faint illumination to the tattered lair.

All the less reason anyone would suspect this to be the locale of the coveted Matrix of Leadership. Here, the Seeker was alone with his musings and his ambitions, waiting for the inevitable moment when he figured out how to utilize its energies to assume control from Megatron and it was inevitable; his was a scientist's mind. A solution always came to he that waited with patience enough.

And, if all else failed, he could bargain for something better from the Autobots.

Unlike the majority that had been forced to adapt their vehicular forms for camaflouge and survival, Hot Rod was fortunate enough to have landed on Earth in something decidedly more than a heap of wreckage, and had been spared what would have been for him the terrible fate of adapting to a more native form; he already felt his Cybertronian form was too sleek, too perfect to alter. It had nothing to do with Sunstreaker-esque vanity, but rather a yearning to hold on to this last vestige of Cybertron and he was entirely too fond of his spoiler, but that was more an aesthetic quirk than an obsession.

Tires trampling wandering pine cones and dredging up forsaken dust, his crimson figure steered haphazardly around clusters of fir and birch, clinging to memoirs of dodging the railish structures of Cybertron fresh in his mind, yet feeling so very distant. On Cybertron, he was unique he was the trademark Daredevil Youth, and he could stand out by being flashy and sassy. Here, he was overshadowed by what were, among the Autobot ranks, the most seasoned and revered soldiers the Autobot army ever had to offer. The acquaintances that had noticed and showered attention upon him on his homeworld had now taken to gawking at Trailbreaker's forcefields or Windcharger's magnetic fields; he couldn't compete with abilities like that. Earth presented him as just another face in the scores of nameless infantryman. A rookie amidst elites.

A boy amidst men.

The trees abruptly stopped as the boyish soldier hit the still dustier foot of a forgotten mountain, the gaping edge along the sides of the narrow trail upward ignored as he threaded his path around. Though predominantly a drab sienna, the mountain did have a collapsed amethyst peak that reminded him of the violet hues found on so many of Cybertron's architecture. Strangely, his mind seemed to assemble the crumbled peak in the formation of an immense Decepticon sigil. His homesickness obviously stretched itself farther than he thought.

Halfway up, he entered a darkened cavern concealed by several boulders that he had discovered mere days ago, and had henceforth used it as a spot for meditation and rememberance. He hadn't looked into the cave too deeply thus far, but he intended to rectify that today, the uncanny smootheness of the cave floor seeming to invite him through the maze of charcoal-black orifices and precarious stalactites resembling sharpened fangs.

Transforming, he ducked into the latest opening, the smooth cavern floor beneath him definitely feeling unnaturally flat. He crouched, brushing away some of the dirt layered limply over what was, judging by the silver sheen and calculated density, Cybertronian material. Uneasiness rose in Hot Rod's gullet in the form of a subdued moan, his day of spelunking more than likely over. Adventure was attractive, of course, but he had hoped for a few moments of solitude and contemplation on his dilemmas before solving mysteries.

...However, an exploit such as this could mark him as the Young Detective, a sort which he had yet to meet on this world. Publicity. "Cha-ching," he whispered with a boyish grin, before traipsing daringly if uncertainly on.

The inner reaches of Starscream's mind hummed silently with activity, his steepled fingers and slouched, seated position his best posture for mental fabrication. The jewel slung about his neck buzzed serenely in his audios, casting its pale glow across the chamber as his mind raced for an unfound solution.

Slinking cautiously around every corner, the cavern gradually became less and less natural in appearance, its Cybertronic origins becoming more evident with every bare wire and uncovered sheet of metal. Navigating the maze proved more difficult than Hot Rod surmised, as evident by the seven dead ends and three turnarounds he had already fallen victim to. Careful of his every step and wary of possible Decepticon traps, the Autobot stepped across the threshhold of the door that would have once slid apart to accompany his motions. As he prepared to wind the approaching corner, his motions froze as a shrill whine escaped the the chamber ahead. Dissolving into a calmer if strained voice, the whine groused, "No! That's much too direct; it must be more subtle."

Distinctive as it was, Hot Rod crept around the corner to verify: It was indeed Starscream. The Seeker sat in solitude, the dim lights overhead no match for the overpowering luminescence of the item about his neck, which lent a godless glow to the brooding one's already frightening countenance.

A sacred relic. In the grimy hands of murderer. Though concealed, Hot Rod made his choice and, checking the number of charges in his forearm cannons, took aim on the other's head. No one would mourn him, and no one would condemn Hot Rod for slaying the legendary dragon that thieved a priceless artifact and had killed so many of their number. How could they?

Raising his proverbial sword and grazing the mental trigger, Hot Rod was cut short a burning in his chest catapulting him across the passage and into an unsupported wall, a fog of dust and small stones clouding his vison, though one image was clear: The nigh-unmoved Starscream with arm raised and weapon smoldering.

A cursory glance down and Hot Rod assessed the damage to be minor, his sigil seared away but vital circuitry and laser core fully intact.

"It's funny," spoke the Decepticon, hefting his winged figure from his cushy seat and taking several steps nearer the injured Autobot, aim unwavering. "I see a brash fire in your optics that seems adverse to sneak attacks like that."

"When the stakes are high enough, I'm willing to snipe," he grunted, the pain weak but wound still open and suceptible to the dust floating about the enclosed chamber.

"I wouldn't advise that; you're a poor sniper. A skilled mech knows to shield his electrical coding from enemy detection."

"Who said I was skilled?" Hot Rod was proud and overconfident, but not haughty. He never professed to be an expert marksman. And why was he jabbering with a killer? Taking advantage of what he perceived to be overconfidence on the Seeker's part, he raised the weapons mounted to his forearms in one swift motion, several photon charges leaping forth before the Seeker dove backward, a spear of violet unloaded from his own forearm.

Hot Rod rolled viciously, dodging the blast but hissing in pain as more dirt ground itself into his circuits.

Starscream's fire struck the wall Hot Rod had been propped against. The mountain countered with thunder of its own as the wall tumbled violently down, burying the maze from whence the Autobot came. A flicker of panic resounded in Starscream's enraged optics, hinting that the sealing of the exit was not only unexpected, it was unwanted.

Barely evading being crushed in the onslaught, Hot Rod dove boldly forward, ducking beside the Seeker and leaping to his feet, forearm trained squarely on his opponent's chest, just to the right of the Matrix dangling from his neck and his enemy's leveled on his head. Their optics met, lakes of fire and rubies of ice, each daring the other to pull the trigger.

"I'm a warrior. I'm armored well in the chassis while you, I doubt, have much plating for your own head assuming they didn't opt to fill it with the stuff instead of a central processor."

Simply to mock, Hot Rod smirked. "And your trash-talk sucks."

Obviously proud of his prior remark, Starscream frowned darkly upon his mutual captive. "I've yet to hear a worthwhile insult escape your own lips."

"Really? You seem insulted..."

"Shut up!"

Hot Rod complied, already uncertain whether he would escape this alive, especially given that his current position was bluff in itself he was out of ammunition. The possibility he'd be spared was terribly unlikely, but Decepticons were occasionally lenient.

Optics unaccustomed to hiding hidden intent, Hot Rod's own face gave away his bluff. "Your poker face needs work," Starscream faulted, a smirk of his own materializing in apparent victory.

No mercy evident in the Decepticon's face, Hot Rod saw no way out and thus no reason not to speak his mind. "Why am I still standing here?"

Both the Seeker's fists took turns clenching and unclenching, the gun remaining level. "What are you insinuating?" the flyer asked in a heightening tone of indignation.

"Nothing. I'm not the one chatting instead of firing..."

"Watch your tongue, brat."

"How come you're not watching it for me?"

To Hot Rod, the situation was unnerving; he had never before engaged in a verbal duel with anyone rooted on the opposite side of the factional fence, let alone a champion Seeker legendary for his body count. Sparring of this nature was unseemly, and the anticipation of a gaping hole in his head nagged at his emotional grid.

Making no move to counter his captive's latest remark bar an ugly downward twitch to the corners of his mouth Starscream prodded his prisoner in the upper chest with his weapon's muzzle, mere centimeters above the fizzling scorch mark left on the Autobot's chassis. Confused, Hot Rod stood still, figuring flight to be a greater risk to his safety if he was indeed misinterpreting the motion. Impatience spiked in the Decepticon's expression again, stabbing his blaster more frustratedly into his contemporary's chest. "Move, you idiot!"

Equally bewildered as he was ten seconds before, Hot Rod let his voice equate his feelings: "Why?" At this stage, he had little to lose. The fiendish smile that etched itself into his natural enemy's face, however, said otherwise.

"Have you ever heard of the Labyrinth of Polyarch?"

Swallowing his unease, the Autobot shook his head with a measure of caution. Starcream gleefully elaborated. "It's a world under Decepticon management one enormous, planet-sized maze, with endless corridors and infinite snares. When a new potential recruit to our empire surfaces, he is dispatched to Polyarch with a captive Autobot and given this commission: Track down and kill your designated prey before the Labyrinth's own terrors can catch up with him or with yourself.

"And let me tell you this, Autobot," Starscream quieted, leaning in close and grinning with a slick malice, "it has been a long, long time since I've visited Polyarch."

A warning shot echoed across Hot Rod's nose, the prisoner taking the bait and transforming quickly, disappearing down an amalgamated hall of Cybertronian alloy and jagged natural rock. Behind him, the Seeker stood stoically, allowing his prey to skate toward seeming escape. But there would be none: All exits were sealed with the initial ridding of evidence seen to by the bombardiers, and the crumbling of the last open exit had fallen mere moments ago. There would be no escape.

Only a long-forgotten hunt.

Within the chill of the maze's heart, Hot Rod shuddered as a distant footfall resounded throughout. Listening intently enough, he almost thought he could hear the sinister grin on his hunter's face; feel his sharply-tuned audios laying in wait for the faintest hint of being.

"Do I frighten you?" Starscream's shrill voice ricocheted. No answer was obviously expected, as Hot Rod's stupidity had never run so deep as that. "I ought to," the Seeker continued, "I sense a great deal of myself in your demeanor."

The comment enraged the young courier, yet it was the fact it was spoken that brought anger broiling to the surface rather than the remark itself; the similarity had already been evident to him. It was sickening that the observation was mutual.

A scratch of laser fire exploded somewhere in the distance, Hot Rod tensing as he tried to place the Seeker's footsteps. Was he drawing nearer or drifting farther away? Only a somber ebony wall shielded him from the rest of the maze, and though it was open in many directions, it seemed safer here than to cower in the corner of a dead end.

"Oh, don't think you can hide forever, Autobot. I will" another shot rang out and another wall pulped, "find you. After all, I know how you think, because I was you once upon a time."

Distant though the dissonant dialogue was, Hot Rod felt certain that to travel the labyrinth was to expose himself dangerously. He was trained only as a glorified delivery boy, while his hunter was trained rigorously in... well, the hunt. He was a foreign beast in a Decepticon jungle, the scents and instincts he was used to meaning nothing on enemy turf.

The Decepticon resumed, "I was once young and optimistic. But then I wised up. Civilians take the heaviest casualties in war, after all; who wants to be a casualty? And you, dear boy" the crackle of energy met a wall dangerously near to the mech's own place of concealment, "are little else but a civilian!"

Charging blindly around the nearest corner, Hot Rod idiotically retorted, "The civilians can end the war!" A volley of violet flares rose from the dark captor at the opposite end of the corridor, the Autobot ducking swiftly into an intersection. He felt stupid and vulnerable waltzing around without a drop of ammunition, but perhaps this way was best: He could duck and dodge until the Seeker was out of firepower of his own, at which point they'd both be on equal ground. Upon further reflection on that, Hot Rod murmured, "Yeah, right."

The clanging of heavy footfalls lightened and intensified as Starscream sprinted down the corridor he had fired from, quickly turning to face his captive in the next opening, scowling deeply as his mouse skittered limply around the next corner with a defiant glint in his indigo eyes. "Cowardly rodent!" he shrieked after his prey, granshing what passed for his teeth. He bolted heavily after his hunted, rounding the corner and suffering an astonishing blow to his chest as the other's fist leapt like a cautious viper, careful not to strike the Matrix still chained about his neck.

Assailant thrown by the surprise assault, Hot Rod shifted to vehicle form and gunned his engine, barreling into the Seeker at a painful velocity. The thrill itself crowded out the pain even as his windshield caved, the Decepticon freeflying across the hall and landing in a heap at the foot of a granite wall. Hot Rod transformed quickly, a few remaining shards sticking painfully between some of his gears.The Autobot chided himself as he realized that he may have unintentionally splintered the Matrix between himself and Starscream, relieved as he noted that Starscream had moved to let his arms take the brunt of the collision. The weapons on his forearms were partially crushed, but unfortunately active.

Crouching, Hot Rod stood ready for the Seeker's next attack, knowing well that to rush him was to invite a null ray blast. The Decepticon stayed on the floor, optics pale but active, pride evidently wounded. "You know, I should be furious that I let your stealth work, but there really is no shame in being beaten by the best." He paused. "And I am the best."

Playing off his counterpart's temper, Hot Rod complied with Starscream's silent wishes, lunging with hate and undoing what had so far been a competent assault, his side gouged with sudden laser fire and pinning him to the floor.

Starscream picked himself up with false majesty, brushing daintily at the dust that had accumulated on his shoulders.

"That shouldn't have worked, but it did."

"It worked on you before." Hot Rod whimpered.

"...So it did," the Decepticon admitted with reluctance. "It seems we both know each other quite well, given this is our first formal encounter."

"You're doing it again."

"What?"

"Talking instead of shooting. No wonder this symbol," Hot Rod poked feebly at the spot on his chest where his faction brand would be had it not been scorched away, "has lived so long; you people just talk until we have time to escape."

Starscream jabbed his weapon toward his fallen captive. " And I think you have a death wish."

Shrugging as best a floored and wounded being can, he mumbled, "Better than hearing your voice."

Not for the first time, Starscream found instinctive rage tug at his face, but a forced amusement plunge it back to its abyss. It wasn't grim amusement but just... a sort of intrigue. He would, after all, do the same thing, situations being reversed. He lowered his gun. "I despise you." He offered a hand, the jewel slung about his neck glittering grandly. "And that is why I let you live."

"I think I'd rather you just shot me," the courier spat, suspecting a cruel trick.

"Shut up before the window of opportunity slams on your hand, idiot."

With stabbing hesitance, Hot Rod grasped the hand offered. "Why?" was the simplest question, thus he asked it with equal simplicity.

"As I said: I loathe you... but not the way I ordinarily loathe Autobots. What I have for you right now is the same contempt with which I have for myself."

Involuntarily, the young courier shuddered.

Only a few auxillary luminaries lit the bleak chamber, a simple red glow cast across either of their countenances. For some it would be an eerie effect, seeing the face of the most dreaded of Seekers bathed in a scathing hue, but any light at all felt soothing at this point. Starscream's jewelry sparkled ominously, adding a serene blue-violet tint to the immediate area.

"How fares what little resistance is left on Cybertron?" Starscream inquired with trademark bluntness. Were Hot Rod willing to be more apprehensive toward a being that could easily crush him to powder, he may have risked displaying his offense. He was coming to realize that he enjoyed being alive.

"Not great, but not terrible, either," he said with dubious unease, in case Starscream was digging for information unknown to his faction.

"So we've shattered your rebellious spirit?" A devious glint in the leering rubies caused Hot Rod an involuntary shift in position. With no apparent way out, they had entered the chamber their chase began in for what Hot Rod dreaded would be an unexpected execution, yet was instead some sort of grossly inappropriate leisurely chat.

Head craned to obscure his words, Hot Rod murmured: "There was a time when I could've asked you the same question."

The devious glint stepped graciously aside to let the ugly severity pass over its carpet of regal red. "Yes and that era ended before you even tumbled off the assembly line, child, so don't pretend you remember some sort of paradise-that-never-was. We lived a pointless existence during the Golden Age, but the veil of subdued slavery we Decepticons were under was dropped, as all attempts to muzzle my people eventually are."

"Last I checked, you never even had a place in the ranks until" Hot Rod stopped, afraid he might say something to deteriorate the mood further.

"Until what?" the Seeker cooed. "Until I lost track of my dear partner Skyfire? Don't counter with things you're oblivious to."

The ambiguity was no doubt intentional; the statement was conveniently void of denial or admission. "Then don't you try to debate the ethics of my faction. You're just as oblivious to their intents as I am about yours."

Starscream smirked. "I find your zeal entertaining."

"I'm not your court jester," the courier snapped. "I'm not here to amuse you, I'm here because of chance."

"Don't even try speaking of Fortune's smile in my company, boy; I don't believe in the stuff."

"So you believe in destiny?" he asked with incredulity. Starscream was certainly a melodramatic and dark sort, but believing his path was lain out for him ahead of time felt like a path this Decepticon would never take predestination would equate a lack of control that seemed very much unlike this seeker-of-power to accept.

"I believe in what's convenient. If an opportunity drops into my lap, I will not question it, but I will not write it off as a cosmic error in my favor."

"I don't want to talk about this," Hot Rod grunted, the subject already tiresome.

"Then what would you like to talk about?"

Hot Rod slumped against a wall, sliding noisily to the floor of intermingling dust and alloy. "There are a thousand subjects I'm curious about, but I think I'm more curious why we're sitting here, isolated and trapped, instead of killing each other or trying to escape."

"We're not escaping because there's no unobstructed way out and because neither you nor I have adequate firepower to unobstruct them. We are not 'killing each other', because you know you're no match for me. Thus we talk."

"Then what aren't you killing me?" Another stupid impulse question.

The Decepticon regarded his natural enemy with a cold observation, then rested his hands on the dead console to his aft. "Because then I'd be trapped and isolated in silence," he hesitated, as if wanting to say something more. "And white noise drives me mad."

Hot Rod smirked as the haze of memory grazed his brain. "I agree with you there. Man, back on Cybertron, the others in my camp were always taking off for quiet supply runs, and I was always left behind almost alone and I tell you, the blip of the radar and hum of the consoles was murder."

Starscream chuckled softly. "Agreed. Back before the war" he stopped, as if pondering whether he was saying something more than he wanted, then pressed on with a vague shrug. "Skyfire would leave me with the lab while he went to gather samples of one thing or another. The buzz of the regulators and the scurrying of retro-rats made me pine for conversation. Well, that or a knife."

"Retro-rats? Haven't seen one of those in aeons."

"Our 'laboratory' was an apartment in a complex in the slums of Iacon. The neighbors complained about the stink of the chemicals every other cycle."

"Really? Somehow I always had you pegged as, uh..."

"Someone with money?"

"Well, yeah."

The Seeker snorted. "People always think that arrogance stems from currency. They never stop to think that it might have stemmed from honest-to-Primus superiority."

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Just when the conversation gets... open, you start with the condescension."

Starscream's fist jolted backward, splintering a blackened monitor in a momentary shower of sparks. "I have much to be condescending about."

"I don't, and I'm allegedly a young you."

Gaze narrowing, Starscream took an uncomfortable step forward. "No, but I earned my prestige and infamy. I endured much to get to where I am."

"A cave with a nobody, jabbering about his nobodyism and your lack of it?"

Silence settled over them both, the oceans of ice and fire clashing in rythm to their unspoken rivalry. "I'm going to rest," Starscream declared at last, stalking toward the exit passage he'd earlier collapsed and slumping against the wall. With a wryness in his tone, he said, "Feel free to sleep with one eye open."

Though the Decepticon's final statement was clearly nothing but grim jest, Hot Rod didn't wish to take the risk. The option of slaying his oppressor as he slept was appealing, but he didn't dare take the chance. Killing Starscream wouldn't help him excape, either.

Time spent alongside Starscream was indeed proving to be a series of perils and deathtraps he'd previously been unaccustomed to, his apparent roommate both short-tempered and too infamous to want to engage. He strode aimlessly through the maze that he well should have associated with death and terror, per his earlier encounter therein, but instead found a haven of clarity. The very situation when pondered over seemed even more absurd, but did allow him insight enough to understand that Starscream was very likely not his enemy, at least not at this moment. Starscream might even require Hot Rod's aid to escape. Possibly.

Other scenarios passed through the youth's mind's eye, all of which seemed possible, but in his spark he felt Starscream was genuinely intrigued by the similarities between them, and too much so to mull execution.

The insinuation, however, only made Hot Rod worry further.

Some hours later, he managed to find his way from the labyrinth to his same spot on the floor, Starscream virtually unmoved, optics aflutter. "You should have rested," the Decepticon grunted as he he sat rigidly against the wall.

The Autobot made no answer.

Fingers tracing the Matrix's casing, the Seeker glimpsed his counterpart's wistful stare. "You were wise not to touch it; I'd've known. But you considered it, didn't you. More than that you reached for it. Your cowardice wisely stopped you."

Hot Rod had no reason to ask how the Seeker knew that. By this point, the Decepticon seemed less a fallible mortal and more a godlike entity. Perhaps the Matrix fuelled his omnipotence. Or perhaps the isolation was playing upon his paranoia. "You said before that you hated yourself," he prodded instead. "That doesn't seem to fit with what all our analytical profiles say about you."

Exasperation puffed up in the Air Commander's face. "Don't presume to think any outside force can analyze me, boy. I don't even know a Decepticon who could sum me up in one meager psychosis report."

"You're dancing around the question."

"And why should I explain it to you?"

"Because you don't think you're talking to the enemy; you think you're talking to yourself."

A certain taunt shimmered in the Decepticon's optics, but this time Hot Rod supressed a tremble. In order to understand his what? Enemy? Companion? Counterpart? he would have to act as the other would like him to. It came eerily easily.

The Decepticon nodded consent. "I'm glad you see it my way."

Inquisition bloomed in Hot Rod's smoke-gray face, to which the Seeker conceded, "I do not despise myself in the sense I condemn my every action and method of carrying it out. What I despise is that I made plays for leadership too early and compromised any proper attempt for future plays; treachery is now expected of me, and Megatron plans for it. I am now forced to consistently outshine every failed attempt with something outlandish and even more expected so that whithered bedpan can't plan for it!" He was sitting upright now, animated in his sharp gestures that perfectly conveyed an inner frustration that clearly dictated his every act. "Now, however now, I have something that I can use to break him." He fingered the trinket around his neck, affectionately caressing it with all the care of a mother with child.

Fascinated at Starscream's animation, Hot Rod probed, with hands clasped upon his knee, "Would it be so bad to follow Megatron's lead...?"

The Seeker snickered in spite of himself, leveling upon his fellow prisoner a pitying yet unsympathetic stare. "He's a barbarian. I am an idealist. He follows the methods of the past. I create methods of my own. He essentially remixes all his old plans using the same formulaic strategy: 'Steal energy. Crush the Autobots with said energy. Conquer the universe.' It's all a continual prayer for rain he simply hopes time and again that he can execute one phase of his plan so that he can achieve all his ends. He doesn't plan with excruciating detail. He doesn't notice the finer things. Why not focus efforts of destruction on Omega Supreme and Skyfire, for instance? Without them, the Autobots on this world are almost entirely stuck here, and Cybertron won't be bothered by the elite here on Earth."

Unnerved by that notation, Hot Rod realized quite suddenly that were Starscream in charge, their resistance might well be dust. He was possessed by something, evidently, for he asked, "Then why not do it yourself? You know, rough it on your own. Won't the Decepticons follow you if they see that you're having more success than Megatron?"

Starscream wasn't looking at him; he stared right through the glowering faces of rock. "No. They're a pigheaded lot that believe Megatron is the sun, the moon, and anything else they're willing to revere. Treachery is expected of all Decepticons to a point, but such consistent failure to overthrow is a terrible sin in our culture, and this is why I am frowned upon. I don't care who those simpletons worship, I just want them to know that I'm in charge. If I can kill Megatron, they may follow me by default, but they won't give in if all I offer is something better."

After a long moment of thought, Hot Rod gazed to where his own insignia would rest, were it not burnt away earlier. He dimly wondered what sort of abstract culture that sigil might represent to outsiders, but was too ingrained in his routine for himself to think strange.

"How are we going to escape?" It wasn't that this isolation wasn't insightful, but the more he learned the more frightened he became that Starscream would not let one of another allegiance live with what he now knew.

"The Decepticons will find us. I sent a tracer beacon out several hours ago. Megatron will no doubt be furious to be inconvenienced enough to rescue me, but he will. He values my skills too highly."

Hot Rod felt a tingle in his laser core. "What about me?"

Starscream appeared perplexed, in a becmused sort of way. "What about you?"

Hot Rod felt himself stand in a panic, pacing whilst muttering frightened curses. "So they'll dig us out, but they'll rebury me. Is that what you're saying?"

The Decepticon shrugged, lacing his fingers around his knee. He said nothing.

"What about me!" Hot Rod's terrified tone reverberated through the cavern. After several seconds of near-silence, he still heard his excalmation ringing through the nearby Labyrinth. "Come on, you say I'm like you! Doesn't that mean I'm worth something, too?"

Antoher shrug. "I aslo said I hated you like I hate myself that doesn't mean I wouldn't kill myself if I felt it would do any good."

"What do I do!"

A third shrug, this one making Hot Rod want to rip out the Seeker's arms. "I don't know convert, I suppose." A trace of dark humor tickled his words.

An absurd scheme involving a phony defection to get out alive passed through Hot Rod's mind, but it was ridiculous. "Would they actually accept that...?" He inquired, mulling his options.

This time Starscream looked genuinely amused. He remained sitting, hands around his knee, waiting patiently for his rescue team to barge through the walls and save him before executing his cellmate. "I doubt it. Your optics are the wrong color most of us are rather prejudiced that way. Humans hate for skin color, we hate for optical tint."

"But Skyfire has blue eyes."

"I never claimed to lose myself in them."

"What's up with the red and purple, anyway? What's the deal with the Decepticon obsession with them?"

"Violet represents prestige and majesty. Red equates death and conquest. The obsession should be obvious."

"What does blue represent?"

"Vulnerability. Oceans of weakness and compassion drowning out any fire they might have held."

"Isn't Skywarp's armor blue?"

Starscream shot his contemporary a nasty sneer. "That's Thundercracker."

"Sorry. You guys all look alike to me." Light humor accompanied the remark.

The sneer remained. "And you call us the prejudiced ones. Anyway, hide is different. The color of one's hide is an aesthetic choice. Optic color represents who you are."

"So my optics drown out the fires painted on my chest?"

The hesitation in Starscream's response was profound. "That depends on where you head in life."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning, there are exceptions to every rule. One out of ten Decepticons has optics of a shade other than red, but only a handful can get away with eyes of blue. Only the most proven warriors earn that right."

"So you think I could make a great Decepticon?" There was a detached horror in the inference, but a sort of twisted intrigue.

"With the right training, perhaps."

"So you were serious about me converting?"

Starscream stood, his reddened optics hard and foreboding. He towered some over Hot Rod, just enough for him to nearly stand face-to-face with the brassy Matrix of Leadership that seemed so elusive, if only half a meter away. "I suggest you figure out an escape route, boy. They could arrive any time, and they're going to insist on searching the premises for any little trinkets I may've stowed here."

His tone of voice was imposing, but not frightening; not with how much the Seeker had opened to him. It was like Starscream stood before him with only a skeletal frame, armor removed. "If I didn't know better," Hot Rod said with a quiet smootheness, "I'd swear your optics were blue right now."

The courier felt a little of his former terror as Starscream suddenly hefted his frame by the neck and flung him some meters into the wall of ebon monitors, a hail of sparks temporarily scalding Hot Rod's back. The auxillary lights dimmed noticeably as the thick stride of the aerial saboteur's feet clapped against the floor, a set of rubies eyeing Hot Rod as the large sapphire set against his chest flickered brightly. Struggling to his feet, the Autobot felt a sharp kick in his side as Starscream aligned him with the wall. A stray spark drifted downward to Hot Rod's forehead, fizzling out inches above his face.

Barely visible in the low light, the glowing blue jewel floated downward, dangling right above Hot Rod's limp hand, the crimson gems drilling him. "Don't ruin a beautiful friendship with insults," Starscream injected with a cold, shrill growl. Hot Rod felt that hand slide around his throat again, bracing himself for another imapact. Instead, he was simply raised upright, the sudden release allowing him to stagger into the dead console. The jewel and the Seeker silhouette ambled away into the deeper shadows of the maze.

"I'm not leaving without the Matrix," Hot Rod grunted, a gritty, heaving sound emerging from his voicebox alongside the words.

"If you can catch me, it's yours," Starscream vowed distantly, sidling artfully into the darkened maze.

Caution filled the youth's tone. "And if you catch me first?"

The Seeker's visage swelled into a death's head as he swooped about a corner and out of sight, blue aura with him. "Then your god has forsaken you."

With uncertainty adding weight to every step, the young hunter traipsed into the labyrinth, not a bullet in his hand.

The hybrid maze of stone and metal became as invisible before Hot Rod as his own fingers, the darkness swallowing down a little more of him as he trudged farther into the cavern. He activated his functioning headlight and aimed it at the ground before him, the other one having been smashed during his earlier collision with Starscream. Its transparent plating, he could see, had spiderwebbed, other scrapes and gouges now evident in his armor.

Starscream's unnerving snicker wailed down the halls: "Clever boy. You're more advanced than I thought."

The remark would not have been so cryptic had the courier been able to discern its point of origin; it was the fact that Starscream had to be so near in order to note the dull illumination that coaxed sticky anxiety into Hot Rod's throat. There was no immediate sign of the blue crystal or the crimson stones accompanying it.

Several cautious stumbles were taken forward, the Autobot aglow with fright, the black underground cold and unmerciful, an anger in the walls that seemed born of the neglect with which they'd been treated. Hot Rod had once been able to visit the catacombs of Cybertron with a pack of fellow refugees, a hidden stock of energon said to be there. The walls there were equally enraged, a darkness oozing from the decaying alloy.

Hot Rod stood still a moment, listening for movement. There was a very light skittering noise presumably an arachnid or some such. Decepticons occasionally crept, but they never skittered. He bolted upright as a low, long, taunting whistle filled the corridor, the Seeker growing impatient. Had he wanted to be pursued? For that matter, where did the Decepticon intend to stalk off to?

Hot Rod hugged the wall and slid around a corner, unsure whether he was walking into a snare or just some sort of game for his counterpart's amusement. Why had he even come into this god-forsaken cave to begin with? He could've stalked off and found a spot where he could have been genuinely alone. Death games weren't nearly as fun as they sounded.

A sudden throb in his temple threw Hot Rod into a stagger, his light spilling into the next corridor in time to see the massive Seeker shape dart around a corner. The thumping in his head escalated as a certain song seeped therein, chanting steadily for some release.

The maze seemed lost on him as everything tangible fell away, leaving him in a colorless void with only himself and some distant object that seemed at once a yard and a mile away. He took a step or did he swim? toward it, the item growing as he loomed nearer. finally, Hot Rod knew what it was: The Matrix.

It emanated a light melody, asking the Autobot for something he didn't have, like a door one had no key for. Was the artifact asking for Hot Rod to liberate it from Decepticon clutches? Was it reaching out toward the nearest positive force to offer it freedom?

At once, the void faded into near-blackness, the familiar scent of dying rock and deteriorating alloy filling the courier's sensors as reality settled over him heavily.

"This game is boring," Starscream deadpanned from an unseen vigil, the echo again in his voice. "I came in here to have fun. Give me a little entertainment, boy!"

A synchronicity fell over Hot Rod, drowning out Starscream's mockery. He felt at one with the Matrix, wherever it was, as though they were intertwined. It felt close.

Hot Rod punched through his weariness, through his pain, transforming and flooring the accelerator as he gunned the corner with all the ruthless ferocity of a daredevil. The turns were tight and abrupt, but he managed to snake through, the object of his quest getting closer.

Vehicular form skating near-gracefully around another corner, he sighted his holy grail against the next wall, the crimson gems hovering above it like a hunter readying a pounce. The gems reflected a certain surprise, amusement, and fright, all at the same time.

Hot Rod aimed full on for his Decepticon quarry, whom dove with remarkable finesse overhead, leaving the Autobot to transform hurriedly so as to not collide with the wall. Using the momentum to his advantage, Hot Rod pushed off from the wall, tucking and rolling as he hit the ground.

Starscream's fist leapt as Hot Rod stood, the courier deflectign and driving it into the wall. A swift backhand put Starcream against the wall, a knee to the torso following up.

The Seeker delicately slid along the wall, connecting Hot Rod's subsequent blows to connect painfully with the wall. He leapt again, landing on the floor as Hot Rod ducked and lunged from below, tilting any balance there may have been.

The Autobot found a dramatic dent in his back as his opponent countered with a low kick, before spinning and holding the Decepticon in place with a heel on his throat. A superior smirk on his face, Hot Rod was understandably proud. Counterpart a wilted blossom underfoot, a lowly Autobot youth had trumped his mighty adversary and proven himself far more adept than one might think.

"You'll make a fine elite soldier one day," the Seeker muttered through a consticted vocalizer. "But on which side is up to you."

Fear crept into Hot Rod's circuits in response to those words. By Decepticon initiation rights, he had technically proven worthy of being an able hunter under the enemy seal.

"Food for thought?" inquired Starscream, ascertaining his colleague's discomfort

With a shake of the head Hot Rod dispelled any rebellious or disloyal thoughts. He hoped the gesture alone would implicate the offer's rejection; he didn't trust himself to make the rejection verbally. "Slag off and give me my prize."

Starscream shrugged as best he could from his position. "Take it."

Hands trembling slightly, Hot Rod concentrated his weight on the foot to keep the Seeker pinned, stooping to retrieve the artifact by the chain twined about his neck. Foul play was half expected, but none was offered.

It sparkled in Hot Rod's hands as he bundled the chain together till it was tightly bound to his palm. No chances would be taken. His foot remained firmly in a place a moment, as though he were considering leaving the Decepticon there. The crimson optics returned the nauseous stare, neither certain of the other's next move.

"You can't hold me here forever." It was a statement of fact rather than a threat or taunt. Hot Rod released his foot, but stood ready for an act of treachery.

The Seeker stood hesitantly, rubbing at his throat and eyeing the treasure in his adversary's hand. "Is it really worth your innocence?" He nodded toward the Matrix.

The courier's gaze divided a moment between his counterpart and the perpetually shining pearl before him. A song filled his head and his audios; not one of pain, but one of contentment. The jewel was satiated. "It'll be worth it to see the look on Prime's face."

A hapless look filled the Decepticon's eyes as examined the ground, sorrow hidden in his posture. "I'd trade everything away to repossess my own."

Hot Rod was unsure whether Starscream was speaking with himself or was uttering a prophecy. Another question nagged, and he knew he had to ask: "Why did you give it back so easily?"

A sly but not altogether sinister smirk creaked over Starscream's expression. "Because I won't betray someone I trust."

Not even Hot Rod could guarantee that of himself. He said nothing, a distant thunder covering his silence.

"Finally," Starscream grumbled in sudden impatience.

When he took the Matrix in his hand, it had felt his quest was over and the universe was in slightly less tumult than before. Now, however, Hot Rod felt as though he were on the home stretch, an army obstructing the finish line. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Megatron will be with them he'll want to personally see to my immediate discipline."

"How does that affect me?"

"Megatron will want a cursory insepction of this area to assure I'm not harboring any secret doomsday devices," he paused, "or enemy soldiers. But he's easily distracted. I'll divert him. Stay here, but if I'm wrong and Soundwave barges in here, fight your way out." That last bit was unsettling, but Starscream appeared confident in his ploy.

The roar of Rumble and Frenzy's piledrivers grew sharper, hammering through the source of the initial cave-in.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because," Starscream hesitated, gauging the proximity of the cassettes, "I know you'll make the right decision someday."

"You're presumptuous."

"And you're brash."

There was a comedy in the Seeker's manner now, the fog having lifted and the sunshine set in.

The Seeker sprinted around the corner and toward the point of rescue, Hot Rod nearly hallooing a thank-you, but thinking better of it.

The Autobot remained silent as the hammering grew louder. He considered shielding the Matrix by stowing it in his chest, but, while practical, this strategy also felt in some way disrespectful to the artifact. He settled for an intermediate option and clutched it against his chest. He listened intently as the sound of the rock bursting through became audible. He could discern Megatron's grating snarl directed toward Starscream, followed by the thump of his fist against something that was probably the Seeker himself. The Air Commander shouted something back at him, and the next thump sounded more reinforced, as though Starscream may have hit back. The Autobot wordlessly rooted for this scenario, jet engines revving and barreling down the now unobstructed corridor, the dictator aggressively howling something after him followed by an order of pursuit.

Hot Rod stood silently another five minutes to see if any Decepticons hung behind for a treasure-digging expedition, no sounds of which seemed evident. He eased from the labyrinth and into the main hall, the auxillary lights still aglow, the only difference being the battered rock fragments strewn across the floor, and the adjoining exit's open mouth. He could feel open air funneling through the tunnels as he slowly took his leave, the open cave mouth finally widening to his point of entry, the sky blue and open, a wall of cirrus blocking him off from the sun. He transformed, weaving down the spiral path from whence he came, mind relatively blank.

Reaching the foot of the mountain, he transformed, observing the evergreens and momentarily envying them and their lack of choices. He and Starscream would meet again, and decisions would ensue. A patient teacer didn't give up on a a disciple he viewed as worthy.

The Matrix remained cradled in the crook of his arm, soothing his mind but not erasing his uncertainty. He mulled again Starscream's question of whether it was worth his innocence.

"Hot Rod?"

The courier jumped, relieved to see Jazz ease out from the forest. Several other anonymous Autobots followed him, one pointing at a device in his own hand and then at Hot Rod. "You have the Matrix?"

The youth outstretched his hand, jewel in tow. "How'd you find me?"

Jazz sheepishly scratched at his neck. "Uh, we followed this here scanner Wheeljack rigged up to detect the Matrix's signature pulses. You, er, just happened to be with it."

Hot Rod smirked. They were looking for the artifact, not for him, which didn't bruise his pride too much. Humility was necessary as a rookie amidst experts. "That's fine, Jazz. The point is that you found me."

Jazz appeared relived not to have offended. "Right. So where'd you find the Sparkly?"

"It's not a short story. But it's also rather dull."

"I'd love to hear it," Jazz said with a genuine interest that made Hot Rod smile.

"Well, I'm not sure I want to tell it."

His superior shrugged faintly, palms open to show no intrusion. "Your choice. So, uh, you wanna present the trinket to Optimus yourself?"

Though that had been his original intent, Hot Rod was feeling less sure of himself. "I don't think so, Jazz. You can hand it to him and claim credit. I don't really think I rescued it for the right reasons."

"Point is you're doing it now though, ain't it?"

There was no direct response to that. "I still don't feel worthy."

"You gonna get worthier if you don't?"

There was no response to that at all.

"Come on," Jazz motioned, waving his merry men off to go on ahead, "we can chat."

Hot Rod pressed forward somewhat hesitantly, the Matrix of Leadership glowing brightly now in the waning daylight.

Ambition was a fickle entity, and he no longer felt he needed to be different so much as to be accepted and regarded as important.

If there was one desire he had, one ambition he wished to be fulfilled above all others, it was that he might hang onto that sacred relic but a little longer, and bask in the vitality he felt while holding it.

That was an honor no Decepticon could cherish.


End file.
